Dr. Rosenberg sat in her camel Gio Ponti armchair, legs crossed, pencil skirt showing her svelte calves. “Thank you for coming. I see… referred here due to a conflict of interest?” The patient stared her down, tapped his foot. He must have been itching to start the session. “So, tell me about your mother.”
The patient’s brow furrowed. “That is a flat start. Like beginning a novel with, ‘once upon a time.’ How trite.”
“Interesting…” She pressed her lips together and scribbled in her notebook. Avoidance issues. Side note: ass. “Fancy your dreams?”
“Dreams?” he scoffed. “Have any other dead horses to beat?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why don’t we try some therapeutic hypnosis, delve into your past, and maybe find some answers there.”
“Backstory?” He sprang up from the couch. “I knew this was a total waste of my time—”
“Please,” she urged. “You apparently came for a—”
“Normally, I would have refused to read my regular shrink’s query.” He whipped out an envelope— one in a million it was. “However, this thing has real promise. Tell him to send me the first thirty pages. As far as you continuing on as my therapist… instant rejection letter.”
Dr. Rosenberg eased her Mercedes into the garage. She flung open the door and tossed her keys on the kitchen table.
“Just in time for dinner.” Her husband handed her a goblet.
She swirled it in her palm. “Conflict of interest or not, I can’t believe the patient you kicked to me, Pooky.”
“A referral, my Cherie?” He kissed her. “As you may have well tasted, I usually ‘cure’ most of mine.”
“He was a monster.” She downed the Chianti. “Pure psychopath--”
“Ah…” Lecter lifted his head with reverence. “Evil Editor. So what did he think of my cookbook?”